Green Eyes, Green Lightening
by je suis l.m
Summary: Green light, quick & sudden like an emerald camera flash. No time to smile, no time to say that I didn't want my photo taken. I heard Harry scream, a thunderclap for this lightening. After the Tournament, I remembered. After the Third Task. HPCD oneshot.


Disclaimer: I do not own Harry Potter.

Pairings: Cedric Diggory & Harry Potter, slight Cedric Diggory & Blaise Zabini.

Summary: Since his fourth year, Cedric Diggory has known that he has "never been a big fan of attractive women," and after having successfully stopped emotional attachment to another boy since the day he discovered his preferences, he realizes that Harry Potter's green, roving eyes are enough to thwart years of resistance. He struggles with hiding his feelings while fighting through the pressures of social life and the Triwizard Tournament. Quote challenge.

Green Eyes, Green Lightening

by je suis l.m.

A green light—quick and sudden like an emerald camera flash, aimed at me. No time to smile, no time to say that I didn't want my photo taken. I heard Harry scream, loud and flooding my ears, a thunderclap for this lightening.

After the Tournament, I remembered. After the Third Task.

* * *

Cho Chang smiled at me again, and I grinned back, playing my part too easily. I grinned back, and she melted so visibly. She really was attractive, but I wasn't one for attractive girls. The thought brought me back to something I overheard Fred Weasley say to Harry Potter, about Cho herself actually, right after Gryffindor beat Ravenclaw in Quidditch during my fifth year:

"I'm not a big fan of attractive women. They think that just because they're pretty, I'm not allowed to hit them with a bludger."

I disliked attractive women for different reasons. As I gazed into Cho Chang's dark brown eyes, I imagined them green. Her skin could stay fair and ivory, but that dark hair needed a trim—shorter, much shorter, and a bit askew. I dared a glance at Harry Potter. He was sitting beside Ron Weasley and Parvati Patil, another attractive girl; I could recognize prettiness in girls, really I could. I could see how the curve of Cho's lips were tempting to some, how the curve of her hips were flattered by her white dress. My mind comprehended all of these little facts, put them in order, made them spell out _attractive woman_, but I was not a big fan of attractive women, no. To my chagrin (and I'm sure what would be my father's shame if he knew), I was more of a fan of a dark haired, skinny, pallid fourth year. The one with the haunted hollows behind those verdant irises; the one with the cicatrice on his forehead that scarred him in more ways than one.

And I sighed, louder than I meant to, for Cho gave me a skeptical look, one eyebrow raised, lending me the image of a strangely painted porcelain doll.

"I'm just a little tired from dancing," I explained, not even hesitating with my lie, just like how I didn't hesitate to try and lie to myself after I realized how shockingly alluring Harry's eyes had been when he had come upon me in the hallway before the First Task. The way in which I had blushed so openly after those eyes had taken in my arms full of ink-covered parchment, quills, and textbooks, had made me curse myself for the following two nights after our encounter. One quill had brushed my jaw, and I had prayed that it hadn't marred my face with a streak of black.

"My bag just split...brand-new and all..." I had muttered hastily, trying to cover up my embarrassment. Why am I so embarrassed? had been my thoughts screaming in my head like a child having a tantrum, but there had been Harry's eyes gazing into my with immense intensity and holding great intentions.

"Cedric, the First Task is dragons."

I shook my head to rid myself of the memories. I was being rather nostalgic tonight. Cho seemed to recognize my distracted mentality and fetched us drinks. The Weird Sisters were playing exuberantly; a pang of guilt stabbed my stomach as I observed Cho staring longingly to the dance floor. I downed my drink quickly. I needed to keep her occupied. Not only did she deserve a good time, but I needed to maintain appearances.

Cedric Diggory, handsome, good student, prefect, the very picture of teenage perfection—except one tiny minor detail that they had not noticed and I had forgotten to mention: I just so happen to fancy boys over attractive girls. That maybe I had been chosen as a hard-working Hufflepuff by the Sorting Hat only because it had recognized how hard I would work—to protect myself and my secret. Of course, at eleven, even I hadn't known where my affections would lie, but perhaps the Hat had known. Or perhaps it had simply understood that I would work hard, somehow, for some reason. Of course the Sorting Hat certainly couldn't have known that I was to endeavor endlessly at being the hard-working student so to hide something that was so obvious to me, right?

I had been able to prevent myself from falling too far for another boy. Sure, there had been a crush or two or three, or countless crushes actually, paired with fantasies that were the only things that could lull me to sleep at night. A quick fairytale to bring me some satisfaction, and not only in terms of releasing sexual repression. My daydreams, or I suppose night dreams since they took place right before I fell asleep, would bring me to a world in which my sexuality was accepted by my peers and parents, where I wasn't a pariah stalking the shameful depths of my mind in each class while forcing it all down beneath a well-placed grin and charming chuckle. Those nights, I would be so immersed in my nighttime reveries of Anthony Rickett and even one time Remus Lupin and, rather frightening to me after it happened, Blaise Zabini. Nothing serious at all.

Until Harry's green-glass eyes flickered before my gray ones. Suddenly, my attempts at surviving Hogwarts, and maybe even the rest of my life, without my desires focusing on one person were thrown to the wind. For a fourth year! This fact brought me even more shame. He was fourteen; I seventeen. And, yet, night after night, my fantasy-lullabies had—

"Cedric?" Cho's voice broke through my rampant thoughts. "Are you all right?"

When had we started dancing again? How had I managed to keep my feet from stomping on hers while we spun around the dance floor? "Yes," I replied.

"You seem a bit...off..." she added, not pryingly but genuinely concerned.

"Just...the Task." In truth, I had already discovered the way to hear the golden egg's song, but she didn't know that. I could still use it as an excuse—a good one at that. She patted my arm affectionately and gifted me with another flawless smile. I forced my feet to move with meaning, to appease her. The night couldn't possibly pass by any slower, but then midnight struck, and groans resonated through the Great Hall. The Weird Sisters took their leave with a bow and a smoke-filled exit. From the corner of my eye, I saw Harry leaving. With no motive other than to rest my eyes on his fluttering green robes, I grasped Cho's hand and went after him. She didn't seem to notice we were following Harry—no, she seemed to think we were rushing to a more private area, possibly. My stomach twisted as I realized that I would have to do this, with her, if only to "brag" about it later in the Hufflepuff common room with my friends and for her to do the same in Ravenclaw.

But, pushing these dreadful coming events from my mind, I caught up to Harry. He was climbing a set of stairs, eager to leave or so it appeared. I called out to him, and when he turned to face me, I realized I had no reason to ask for his attention.

As always, the first excuse that came to mind was the Triwizard Tournament. "I-I never thanked you properly for the other day," I told him. As his eyes flickered away from my gaze and then back, I felt the blush creeping into my cheeks once more. I hoped that he would only think it to be the product of too much dancing and merrymaking.

"Don't worry about it," he replied. "I'm sure you would have done the same for me."

"_Exactly_." Much too, oh much too enthusiastic, I swore silently. "Well, um..." I leaned in closely so as to speak softly—if another person heard me helping Harry with the next task, there would certainly be repercussions—but I immediately regretted it. His skin looked even softer at this proximity, smooth and perfect to the touch. I swallowed hard, tried not to imagine how his lips would feel if pressed upon mine.

"You know the prefects' bathroom," I murmured, my voice shaking slightly. "On the fifth floor?" He nodded, confusion in those eyes. "It's not a bad place for a bath." I shuddered; my words had sounded so suggestive! But, no, he wouldn't see them that way. Only I would—the one who really desired to bring him to the prefects' bathroom, just the two of us. Make that mermaid shield her eyes and duck for cover behind her rocky perch.

My blush deepened, and I was sure that my cheeks were stained with the darkest crimson possible. Save the fantasies for later, I scolded myself. As I had suspected, Harry hadn't taken my hint to be a proposition. He still looked utterly perplexed, and I understood why immediately. My supposed clue was more of a riddle, a conundrum, than anything, but I couldn't clarify. My mouth was dry, and I knew my voice would quiver horribly if I attempted to elaborate.

So, I left Harry on the stairs as I hurried back to Cho, whose eyebrow was raised quizzically once more. I braved one last glance back to Harry, who hadn't yet moved. Puzzled really was a good look for him. You are pathetically cute, I thought. Stupidly, disgustingly cute.

* * *

After the Yule Ball, I spent every waking moment thinking of a way to get Harry alone, for just a moment. Well, more realistically, I spent every waking moment fantasizing about getting Harry alone. Once I had him cornered, I would confess my feelings. His green eyes would widen, then soften. He would allow me to kiss his lips—softly, just softly. And, depending on how late at night it was, my little fantasy might intensify.

I would say that the best perk of being a prefect was having private quarters. No one could hear me if I moaned Harry's name a little too loudly. No one heard my groans of urgency, my cry of exaltation after my release. Those sounds could only reach my own ears, and afterward, they brought me shame, but at least I was the only one to hear it all—to experience it. However, my sleep was always fitful when rest followed fantasy.

It was difficult: living through two months of exhausting study for the second task while constantly thinking of Harry. Once, I saw him in the library, only two bookshelves away from me, with those friends of his, Granger and Weasley. I was too nervous to even say hello. It was pathetic, really. My hands grazed the bindings of the books before me, as I peered through the cracks, my eyes narrowing so as to see him better. The glowing lights illuminated his eyes when all colors seemed only darkest amber and pale beige.

I was holding the dusty _Unnecessary Charms of the 17th_ _Century_ that I'd been pouring over, looking for any more information on the bubble-head charm that I would be using throughout the task. Suddenly, the thick volume became so heavy in my arms, like lead weighing me down, holding me back from Harry, but I was thankful for it. The book, the Task—let me return to my studies, let me forget about those malachite irises.

And then, he blinked. Somehow, that swift movement of his eyelashes fluttering to just above his cheekbones—it shocked me; _Unnecessary Charms_ slipped from my grasp and fell to the ground with a crash loud enough to wake my ancestors six feet under the ground, miles away, who were probably rolling in their frigid graves about now.

Harry and his friends glanced my way, and I ducked, trying to play it off as retrieving my book. I knew Harry had seen me, but in truth he had seen nothing: just Cedric Diggory having an accident, not Cedric Diggory spying on him—anything for a glimpse of his face.

This is ridiculous, I thought while exiting the library for the cool hallways. This is bordering on obsession. This is not the me that other people think of when they hear my name or look at me standing there in my Triwizard jersey. This is not the me that I'm supposed to be. The me I want to be.

* * *

The Second Task, the water gazing at the sky, reflecting blue and blazing sunlight. I stared at its blinding surface until I saw white, and then I turned to Harry. He was sweating, panting from his run here. My eyes were fixed to him while on land, and my gaze lingered underwater, in the murky depths among the merpeople.

And when the crowd cheered my name, when I took first place and tied with Harry, my frustration bloomed stronger, and yet I withered. His eyes were everywhere but to me. Nearly four months until the Third Task. Four months to dream and never have what I wanted most.

* * *

I pushed him into the wall, his breath hitching in his throat as I kissed him roughly. His hair was too short to trail my fingers through, so the fingertips tasted the crook of his arched back. The deserted classroom was a perfect getaway for this secret—first time performed. I licked the side of his mouth, and he parted his lips in submission. Though his hands trembled slightly, he let me have my way. Why did I have this desire for a fourth year? For this inexperience?

"Harry," I breathed before I could stop myself, and Blaise Zabini pulled away, his dark eyes revealing the hurt one simple word could cause.

"Harry?" he questioned acidly. "Did you just say Potter's name?"

I stepped away from him, bracing my hand on an empty wooden table, needing extra support. My first time kissing another boy, and I'd ruined it. Of course, it had been Harry's influence over me that had led me to a more physical form of escape at all, but I hadn't wanted Blaise to know. I understood pain too well to want to inflict it upon someone else.

When I'd seen Blaise Zabini in the library after hours, his head in his arms, resting with several texts nestled beside him, some closed, some open, some fallen to the stone floor in helter-skelter, I'd only meant to wake him, scold him for being out past curfew, and walk him toward the Slytherin common room.

He'd mumbled sleepy excuses on the way—his workload was too great, Divination was taking too much out of him, though he enjoyed it. I had never spoken to Blaise before, although I, as well as most boys and girls at Hogwarts, had noticed his flawless physiognomy. In fact, I believed I'd heard a Muggle-born, fifth year Hufflepuff girl excitedly whisper to her friend one day in the Great Hall that he was "God's greatest handiwork" as he walked past, unaffected and impassive.

Zabini had entered my nighttime fantasies once, and his presence was causing a slight blush on my cheeks from this embarrassment unknown to him. I had planned on leaving him at the start of the corridor that led to his common room, so as not to impose upon the privacy that was the Slytherin password but still keep a sharp watch for a few minutes to ensure that he would not come slithering back into the hallways.

However, just as we were about to part, he'd dropped the numerous books in his tired arms. I had knelt to his side, helped him gather them—so many books on Divination, I was sure that he was overworking himself, doing extra homework or reading far ahead. He had seemed to read my thoughts and muttered, in a sleep-induced pleasantness which would not accompany him otherwise, that the art of the Sight was his favorite subject, but he needed help, Trelawney's temperament too unpredictable to offer any reliable aide.

While collecting his books, his hand had brushed mine for a second far too long, and I wondered whether his reflexes were simply slow from exhaustion or if he had done so on purpose. One look into his sepia eyes told me it was the latter. My stomach twisted; in my six years at Hogwarts, no one had ever "flirted" with me, and I realized that Blaise probably wouldn't have if it hadn't been for his lethargic disposition.

I had two choices: either ignore him completely or find a reason to see him again and take advantage of this opportunity. The fact that I even considered pursuing him told me that I had been pushed in a direction that I couldn't return from, all thanks to gracious Harry Potter. This sudden bout of self-understanding hit me like a Howler shrieking in my ears. I felt as though I was drowning, trapped in a cage in a glass tank where anyone who wanted to could pass me by, could laugh as the water filled my lungs. I had to make a decision as to whether or not I would accept this threatening aqua wave or walk away. And I had to make it in a moment's time.

And I had foolishly chosen what I wanted, not what was best.

Having taken two years more of Divination than he, my offer to tutor him seemed perfectly natural. After my assurance that it wouldn't conflict with my studies for the Third Task—whatever it would be—he had heartily agreed, smiling in his drowsiness.

So we had met the next day. And the next. It was he who had proposed moving our studies to the empty classroom, claiming he'd be more comfortable talking louder without Madam Pince breathing down our necks. After no more than five minutes of crystal ball vocabulary, I'd noticed that he was closer to me than usual. Two more minutes had passed, and I felt his eyes on my face. Turning to face him, we had been locked in that somewhat tentative, somewhat horrifyingly exciting gaze of expectation.

I had known it was wrong—I only wanted him for the sake of pretending like Harry Potter didn't matter to me as much as I knew he did. But a kiss from Blaise Zabini hadn't been enough to stop me from imagining he was another fourth year, the true object of my desire.

The pain flickering in Blaise's eyes disappeared just as quickly as I had said Harry's name. He turned on that famous Slytherin apathy, and his indifference almost convinced me until I saw how his hands shook as he barked an affected chuckle, cocked an eyebrow, and said, "Well, I've gotten what I wanted from these study sessions," while taking his leave.

I sighed, clutching my Divination text. Guilt licked at me like a whip's lashings on my back, opening wounds—the greatest of them all a boy named Harry Potter.

* * *

They destroyed the Quidditch pitch, for what? Hedges. Not only had they taken Quidditch away for the full school year, but now they had torn the pitch apart, ripped it to shreds. Perhaps this was a bit exaggerated—the labyrinth was nowhere near full grown yet; just a miniature replica of what would come—but to me, all emotions seemed to be heightened. With the Triwizard Tournament always lurking in the forefront of my mind, the shadows loomed just as strongly. Blaise's silence on our entire encounter had been expected, for he would have to expose himself as soon as he exposed me, but my still growing affection for Harry Potter had surprised me.

Never would I have thought that the sight of Harry walking away with Viktor Krum after our meeting at the Quidditch pitch—never would I have believed that it would have such a great effect on me. So their rendezvous was occurring right after the explication of the Third Task, so maybe I was a bit more vulnerable and neurotic than usual, but, honestly, what did Viktor Krum have that I didn't? Besides good looks and a firm grasp of how to butcher the English language, I mean.

Jealousy did not wear on me too well. I could feel the sneer of envy contouring my features in the most horrible manner, but Harry's back was to me, anyway, so it was not as though any face that mattered was turned to see the curl of my lip or the furl of my brow.

I shook my head, trying to ease the jealousy. I began to take my leave, return to the school, clenching my fists and telling myself to breathe. How utterly absurd that I should be feeling this way. Harry barely knew me, honestly. Broken, shared words in the corridors; glimpses in the Great Hall; glances that I so wholeheartedly misconstrued to be ones redolent of desire in those green eyes, the same desire that I was sure my gaze held.

On my way to the Hufflepuff common room, I found Blaise Zabini in my path. I had planned on looking past him, ignoring him, so as to save us both the awkwardness, but he gripped my arm, pulled me aside, muttered words that sounded so incoherent when compared to the rushing in my ears. When he pressed his lips against mine, I submitted without hesitation.

This time I would watch my words. No more mentions of Harry Potter to be heard.

* * *

Sitting at the Three Broomsticks, I pretended to listen to my friends' idle conversation, but in truth, I had half an eye and all my concentration on Harry and his friends, Granger and Weasley. They seemed to be discussing something rather animatedly, but I couldn't quite grasp the subject, especially since my attentions were drawn to the languid movement of Harry's lips and the glimmer that the lighting cast on those glowing irises.

My friends seemed to have elected me to refill their butterbeers. Easy, I thought. Simple, just take your mind of him for a second. Ten steps to the counter, knuts and sickles tossed to the table. Only three to hold, I could do this.

Impossible. And impossibly mortifying as a butterbeer landed on Harry, full contents emptied from the pint. The culprit? No one but myself, of course. He jumped up, out of his chair, green eyes flashing, his cloak black as always but apparently soaked.

"S-sorry," I managed to say, blushing madly as my quivering hands placed the remaining pints on my table.

Harry finally seemed to notice that it was I who had dropped the drink on him. The anger drained from his face, rather inexplicably, and as he brushed his hands against his cloak, a smile tugged at the corner of his mouth. "It's all right," he replied. "Without Quidditch to play, it's hard to keep our reflexes going, right?"

I felt my stomach drop slightly and swallowed hard. After such a horrifying act, Harry was actually trying to engage me in conversation? "Y-yeah." God, couldn't I say anything more? "I miss Quidditch a bit too much I think."

Granger was looking at me with a raised eyebrow but turned away when I glanced at her.

"Don't think that's possible," Harry said, still standing. "Those hedges are ruining the pitch, you know?"

"Right. Wish I could get a play in before they take it over completely."

"Me too."

There was quiet for a moment as my mind buzzed with anticipation. I knew this was the opportunity, if there ever was one, to get Harry alone, to just talk, to simply be near him, perhaps brush my sleeve on his (I closed my eyes and rolled them inwardly at the immaturity and schoolboy insinuations of such an innocent fantasy). An encounter that was nothing of the sort I had with Blaise at all. Harry was rather straight, as far as I could see, but that didn't mean being alone with him wouldn't have its perks. Getting to know him couldn't hurt.

"Er..." I bit my bottom lip nervously, wishing I could kick myself for the great start I was having. "Well, would you want to maybe have a go at it... before the hedges grow too much, I mean... to play Quidditch, I mean."

Harry's face lit up. "Like a Seeker's game on the pitch?"

"Yeah!" I said, far too excitedly, but he didn't appear to notice as he gave an emphatic nod. "That's what I had in mind. You know, maybe tomorrow or something? Take a break from the Tournament and all."

Granger's attention returned to me, and I wondered if she could see through my invitation, until she spoke: "Harry, maybe we should do a bit more practice, though?"

Guiltily, Harry shrugged his shoulders. "Well, but... Hermione... one day off wouldn't be too bad..."

She sighed but didn't reply, although I had to admit she looked rather cross.

"Then, it's settled!" Harry clapped my shoulder, and I swear the skin beneath my cloak blushed a shade deeper than any crimson. "Tomorrow, say after lunch, on the pitch?"

Sure, I thought as my stomach did another flip. Why not? What could go wrong?

* * *

My breath clouded over the window as I stared out into the downpour, the Quidditch pitch barely visible through the raindrops. By this time, I should have already been in the Great Hall, eating lunch—probably too fast—and then waiting eagerly for Harry to finish his, so that we could hurry to the pitch, the sun shining on us, a good omen for the wonderful Seeker's Game we would be about to play. Instead, I lingered in the common room, gazing at the rain and its implications.

We wouldn't be playing Quidditch, not in this weather. Of course, if it had been up to me, I would still mount my broom, release the golden snitch, and be off with it, but it wasn't my call. Harry would be the one to decide whether or not we dared to fly in the thunderstorm. I was sure he'd be logical; this was why I hadn't left for lunch yet. I didn't want to be let down.

However, I forced myself to rise, my body heavy as though I had absorbed the rain into my skin. Trudging down the corridors and down the stairs to finally reach my destination—there was no doubt in my mind that it was all for naught: only disappointment waited.

When I entered the Great Hall, Harry approached me immediately, flushed and wide-eyed. "Can you believe the storm?" he said, exasperated.

"I know. There goes our day off, right?" I desperately tried to snuff the small, feeble flame of hope that refused to stop flickering in my stomach.

Harry glanced at where I assumed he'd been eating, at Hermione whose nose was buried in a book. "Well," he began, then hesitated. After returning his attention to me, he continued, "If it's all right with you, I think I'd rather play in this storm than go through another midnight study session tonight." He sighed, then starting as though he thought his words had been traitorous, added, "Not that I'm not grateful! Obviously, we need to be prepared for anything, but... a break _would _be nice."

The candle flame of hope I'd been reluctantly harboring flared to full life. "No, I know exactly what you mean. A little lightning's nothing." I regretted saying this as a grimace covered Potter's face. "At least it will be unforgettable?" I prodded, biting my lip.

We both looked at the ceiling which had just been lit up with flashes of white-hot lightening. Then, surprising me yet again, Harry shrugged. "_Exactly_." We headed off towards the Quidditch pitch, me thanking my lucky stars, whichever and wherever they were in that dark sky, for my good fortune.

When we mounted our brooms, the wind nearly caused us both to fall over. Be that as it may, we readjusted and rose into the sky, having cast charms to clear our eyes of the water that threatened to drown our vision—threatened to take Harry's figure away in a flurry of rain.

The golden snitch whizzed past my eyes, startling me out of my reverie of pallid skin and blazing green. We chased after it, and I began to enjoy the rush of the storm in my ears as I flew neck-and-neck with Harry. He laughed, a sound that seemed so soft in the roar of thunder. The snitch took a daring turn up, and we followed it without a second thought, closer and closer to the heart and eye of the storm. Beneath me swam the hedges—ever higher—but they were so distant, as though they didn't exist, so barely visible. And there was Harry, so near; I could reach a hand out, just lift it really, and my fingers would grace his.

The snitch turned left, rather sharply, just as a strong westerly wind blew. I held onto my broom with all my might, against the gale, but Harry...

He hadn't expected it. My breath caught in my throat, and the wind stole my cry. We were far too high—he would surely die. I counted as I tried desperately to fight the storm, to reach him. I counted, too fast—not seconds, surely not, for I had reached forty-two. Those weren't seconds; I must be counting every single moment, breath, blink, raindrop falling from the sky, until I could reach him—plummeting, please God let me catch him.

I reached out to him. "Harry!" His eyes were shut—that sea of emeralds and sea foam crests locked away—and like a dream, I thought I would lose him, like when I woke to an empty bed and a head full of stories that would be nothing but fiction. My fist closed in on his robe; my arm wrenched him to me with all its strength. We hit the ground, with too much force, and I swore I heard my broom snap, but I could have cared less.

Harry was upon me, his head in the crook of my neck, as I lay on my back, no breath in my lungs, but when he opened those eyes once more, dazed but alive, shocked but well, I felt air and oxygen return to me.

"Harry..." I said, as we tried to regain some composure, as we tried to sit up. "Harry..." _I'm not sure if you know this, but those 42 seconds were the longest seconds of my life._

"I thought..." he murmured. "Thanks."

"I promised you an unforgettable evening," I replied, attempting to sound ironic. Without thinking, I took his hand in mine, and before I could pull away—before I could hide my intention—he laced his fingers in mine. "Seriously, will you ever forget a near death experience?"

And he laughed, stood, helped me up. My feelings were nowhere near wounded when he released my hand. Being able to watch him walk ahead of me, alive, was enough.

* * *

The rain never stopped.

I had feared Harry would ignore me after the incident. It had been my fault, after all, that he had nearly died. Well, perhaps, both of our faults, but I still couldn't help but take the blame, hoarded all to myself, a gift given to me from me, and I couldn't pretend like it hadn't been given.

But, no, he actually approached me in the hallways now. Neither of us told anyone about the Quidditch game—our little secret. Maybe that was why we were always talking now. Secrets could bring people closer, or tear them apart.

The secret of our Seeker's game may have been bringing us together, but my attraction to Harry was ruining everything. Each time he met with me, with that smile that reached his eyes, the urge to withdraw overpowered me. I would make our conversations brief, using the Third Task as an excuse yet again. I tried to pretend as though I never saw the hurt written on his face as I left with my soft but curt responses to his greetings and idle inquisitions as to "how I was doing".

Sitting in my room, the moon covered by the rain clouds—which we had been assured would be gone by the day after tomorrow, so no need to worry about the Task being canceled—I couldn't sleep. My fantasies, my imaginings, they just weren't enough. Each time my eyes fluttered to a close, I saw Harry's real smile, heard his real voice. Memories were haunting me. My hands clenched and unclenched, the hands that led me to parchment and quill. The hands that wrote out a rather short letter.

_Harry,_

_Meet me at the Quidditch pitch, tomorrow, after dinner. I need to talk to you._

_Cedric._

Being a prefect, I could stalk the hallways after hours. I made my way to the owlery, called my owl down. He perched on my arm, eyes staring unblinkingly into mine. I tied the letter to his foot, and he looked baffled that I would have him send a letter to someone at Hogwarts.

"I know," I told him, petting his soft, brown plumage. "I must be crazy."

I watched as Harry took the letter from my owl. He read and pocketed it so quickly, didn't mention it to his friends at all. And he didn't glance at me, either.

* * *

Some people knew when to give up. I was not one of those people. I didn't stand out in the rain for my health, you know, Harry.

The hedges were so high—gargantuan really, and I couldn't see where they ended. Tomorrow, I would be in there, competing against Harry himself, for a prize that paled in comparison to my rival for first. In the rain, which was really nothing but a heavy drizzle, I could just make him out in the distance. He was coming.

"What's this about, Cedric?" Harry inquired as he took the final steps to meet me.

My heart had never hammered my chest so hard yet felt so stagnant, rigid, frozen. I couldn't move, not a limb, not my lips. But I knew I had to do this now, or the Triwizard Tournament would be impossible; I wouldn't be able to concentrate. I sighed inwardly, knowing full well, that once again, I was using the Tournament as an excuse, except instead of running away, I was facing the issue straight-on.

"Harry," I managed, closing the space between us. He didn't shy away from our closeness. "Harry, I have something to tell you."

"Now?"

"Yes."

"Are you sure?"

I blinked, taken aback by his question. "Yes, now." I looked away from his eyes, losing confidence. Maybe this was a horrible idea. Maybe—Harry's hands... They were shaking. Just like mine.

"Cedric, look I—"

"Just listen!" Harry sucked in a breath through his teeth but didn't say another word. "Harry, it's just that, well, I think I should tell you why I've been avoiding you these past weeks." He turned away, the hedges capturing his line of vision; yet I hurried on, I continued: "It's just that I... Harry, as immature and strange that this sounds, saying it like this, but I like you."

He nodded, still not looking me in the eye, those green eyes elsewhere, anywhere, but to me. "Harry?" I asked, hoping he would say something, anything.

"I know," he told me. "I mean, I hoped. I mean... Cedric, please." And those verdant irises finally met my gray ones, and I could see, even through the mist, that there might have been the evidence of coming tears. "I want to talk about this, but not now. I just can't, not now, Cedric. Just wait for me, okay? This is all... new. I need time to think about it. Tomorrow, okay? After the Third Task, we'll talk this through. Both of us."

I didn't know what to say, or feel. I would have taken it as rejection, a complete denial, but had he said that he'd hoped for this? Had he said that, or was I imagining things? Were my daydreams mixing with reality now? "Harry..."

It was so fleeting, but he pressed his lips upon mine. So quick, I nearly missed it, but I had enough time to shut my eyes for an instant. To take it in. I didn't lift my lashes to gaze at him even after his lips were no longer on me. And when I finally took in my surroundings, he was far away. I didn't call for him.

After the Tournament. After the Third Task.

I could wait.

* * *

**A/N**: I hope you enjoyed this. Please **review**.

Quote challenge.


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